I had a day of writing planned for today: a rare occasion for me and one that I should have been able to cherish.
Instead, I’ve moved from one computer to another and back again, each time staring at the screen and finding myself unable to focus, my thoughts drifting elsewhere. I wrote the title of a new story I want to start working on. That’s it.
My dreams last night were filled with images, sounds, words, pain. I thought about my own children, their safety, their futures and I woke up feeling wretched.
I cannot for the life of me comprehend the horrific attack in Manchester and I’m not sure I ever will.
Cruel, horrendous, inhumane, pointless.
What God could ever give His blessing to such an act?
How could someone who blows himself up, killing innocent children and their families, ruining lives and futures believe there is a God who would welcome him in with open arms, congratulating him for the good work he did on earth and awarding him the coveted title of Martyr?
There is no religion that would support this.
We say we will carry on, will not let them win, but today, I falter.
I falter because I’m struggling once again to come to terms with the cruelty of this world we live in. I cannot think straight and I cannot get on with the every day, for it won’t stop this from happening again and it won’t bring those children back.
Tomorrow I will begin anew and although I’ve lost my precious day of writing, I’m thankful that’s all I’ve lost. I will keep going because I have to, for my sake and for that of my children. I will mask my fear, but it will be there, simmering under the surface, wondering what next? What could they possibly to us that is worse than what they did in Manchester on Monday evening?
I don’t even want to think about what that answer could be.